


Stumblin' In

by TrevorPhilipsIndustries



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: F/M, I might add more, This is a oneshot for now, i'm not sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 03:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrevorPhilipsIndustries/pseuds/TrevorPhilipsIndustries
Summary: Sometimes Trevor gets angry. Sometimes he needs affection. Sometimes, it's a little from column A, little from column B.





	Stumblin' In

He burst into my apartment, drunk as hell. His shirt was covered in blood and his face was twisted into an angry expression. My mouth hung open and I stared at him as he slammed the front door behind him, and took a few clumsy steps before stumbling to the ground, taking my coat rack down with him. Why did he always show up like this? I liked Trevor coming around; really I did. He was crazy; batshit insane, in fact. But I had grown fond of him, in some strange way. Somewhere, under his rough exterior, and the mess that is his life, he had a soft heart, and an inner child who begged for love. 

I knew only a small amount about his past. His parents didn't treat him right. He was abused in just about every way a person could be. Life beat the hell out of him. He never caught a break. His addictions started out as coping mechanisms; I knew that much. But it was killing him, and he knew it. Part of me thought maybe that was his goal. I knew better, though. I could see the desperation in his eyes every time he showed up drunk or high at my front door. Still, it would be nice to see him show up somewhat sober once in a while. He looked at me from his place on the floor, looking two seconds away from either tears or a screaming match. I held out my hands to help him up, and he responded with a rage-filled glare. I rolled my eyes at him. So this is how it was going to be. 

"Fuck you," he muttered, pushing himself off the floor with the palms of his hands. His body swayed as he stood in front of me, picking at a cut on his cheek before smearing the blood across his face. 

I planted my hands on my hips and shifted my weight onto the other foot. "Why are you here, Trevor? Did you show up just to swear at me or do you want something?" 

"Fuck you," he repeated, wagging a finger around in my face. "Fuck you and fuck your stupid coat rack. It's too fucking clean in here. Who do you think you are, the queen of England? Fuck you." His words used to hurt me. I would fight back tears and try to ignore the lump in the back of my throat. I didn't care anymore. I knew how he felt about me when he was sober. He put me on a pedestal. I was the one pure thing in his life, and he'd be damned if he let anything tarnish that. That was all that mattered to me. His drunken words meant nothing to me anymore. 

"Sit down, honey," I told him, trying to calm him with my relaxed tone of voice. I tried to guide him towards the couch with a gentle hand on his arm, and he brushed me away angrily. He tumbled onto the couch and slumped against the back of it, his left arm thrown lazily across his lap. "Stay here," I ordered. He scoffed at my request, but made no effort to move. 

I let out an exasperated sigh as I dug through my medicine cabinet for bandages and antiseptic. I soaked a wash cloth in warm water and folded it neatly on the counter. He always left spare clothes here for occasions like this. I pulled a pair of clean underwear and sweatpants out of the linen closet, and piled everything up in my arms. I laid it all out on the coffee table, and scooted close to him on the couch. I helped him out of his shirt as he angrily mumbled incoherent words. He tried to slap my hand away when I began wiping the blood away from his face, but I wrapped my free hand around his wrist, gently pushing it back down into his lap. I used the wash cloth to clean the dried blood away from his chest. His skin was hardened and covered in scars. He was thin but toned. The drugs had taken a toll on his body, but his lifestyle kept him in shape. I ran my hands over his skin, feeling the light spattering of hair across his chest, and a raised scar across his collar bone. 

"Would you quit fuckin' molesting me? Jesus Christ," he snapped. Normally, he would welcome my touch if it meant a chance at getting into bed with me, but he was especially intoxicated tonight. He winced as I sprayed antiseptic into the large gash across his upper abdomen. "Fuck you," he told me for a third time. His words were angry but his voice was calm. I left him on the couch and headed towards the kitchen. He kept mumbling angrily under his breath as I put together a sandwich for him. Food always helped when he was high, drunk, or a bit of both. I handed it to him on a plate, and put down a glass of water on the end table next to him. 

"Drink some water," I told him, "You'll feel better." 

"Don't tell me what to do," he grumbled. I reclaimed my place next to him on the couch, and leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees. I dropped my chin against my hands and looked at him as he ate. 

"Why are you fuckin' staring at me? What the fuck do you want?" He spoke through a mouthful of food. 

"I could ask you the same question. You are in my apartment, Trevor. Care to explain why you're here tonight?" 

"Nope," he answered simply. I knew this game. He didn't want to admit that he needed a warm body and a listening ear. Sometimes he wanted a pair of gentle hands without having to outright ask. I was willing to deliver. I knew who he was inside. I wanted to help him; help that small child inside him, desperate for affection. 

I changed the subject. "I hate seeing you like this, honey." He glared at me, but I ignored the warning sign. "I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself." 

"And I wish you'd shut the hell up about this, but we all wish for things that we'll never get, don't we?" He dropped the empty plate onto the end table and crossed his arms over his chest, still slumped against the back of the couch. 

"Why don't you change into some clean clothes, Trev?" I gestured at the small stack I had left on the coffee table, and he rolled his eyes and groaned. 

"Yes, your majesty." 

"You're so sweet sometimes, Trevor. Why do you always have to be a dick to me when you're drunk?" 

He scoffed at me as he slowly pushed himself off the couch into a standing position. "Why do you always have to be so goddamn annoying?" I ignored his comment and instead chose to watch him as he stripped off his dirty jeans. He turned to look at me before yanking down his underwear. I had seen him in the buff plenty of times; we had developed a sexual relationship pretty quickly after we met. Even still, I couldn't help but stare. He looked good. "Would you quit fuckin' ogling me? You're makin' me feel like some kinda sideshow. Jesus, woman." 

He slipped into the clean pair of underwear, and looked at the folded up sweatpants in front of him in disgust. He grabbed them as if they had just stolen his wallet, and threw them angrily onto the couch next to me. "Fuck your sweatpants." 

"Those are yours, Trevor." I sat forward and crossed my arms over my chest. 

He paused to look at me, clearly trying to form a coherent sentence in his head. "Still," he shot back, and threw himself onto the couch, bumping arms with me on the way down. He let out a loud sigh and dropped his head against my shoulder. He hesitated for a moment before grabbing one of my hands in his own. This is what he needed. This is what he was afraid to ask for. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. I knew the apology would come eventually. I just didn't expect it so soon. 

"For what?" 

"For bein' a dick. You don't deserve it." He was sobering up; at least as sober as Trevor Philips could be. His thumb pressed against the small patch of skin above my thumb, and he rubbed it affectionately. 

"I wish you would come to me instead of getting drunk," I admitted to him. "I don't know why you do this." 

"Yes you do," he snapped. He was right. I knew why he drank. It had become apparent to me as I had gotten to know him. Trevor drank when he was sad; when he was depressed. He had a lot to feel sad about. I didn't blame him for feeling the way he did. I just wished that I could help. "Why do you let me into your life when I treat you like shit?" He questioned me. He lifted his head away from my shoulder to look up at me. His eyes were soft, and he looked at me with an innocent curiosity. He looked almost guilty. 

"Because," I sighed, "Sometimes we all need somebody. What kind of person would I be if I denied you that?" 

"A normal one," he answered. His voice cracked when he spoke, as if he were holding back tears, and he rested his head on my shoulder again, turning his face away from me. "Nobody gives a shit about me." 

"That's not true." 

He shrugged against me. "S'alright." There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time his voice small and vulnerable. "I don' need 'em, anyways." 

I ran my fingers through his thinning hair and brushed my thumb against his cheek. "Then why are you here?" I murmured. 

He let out a small, strangled sound, and I could tell he was holding back tears. "I need you," he cried. Warm tears spilled out of his eyes and soaked through my shirt. I wrapped my arms around him tightly. There was an urgency in the action, as if I couldn't get my arms around him quickly enough. He was hurting. I didn't ask why. I didn't need to. He would tell me if he wanted to. 

"I'm happy you're here," I whispered to him, laying my cheek against the top of his head. 

"Bullshit." He wiped a tear away from his face with the back of his hand and sniffled. "I think I broke your coat rack." 

I laughed. "Babe, I don't give a shit about my coat rack. All that matters is you're here and you're safe and clean and loved." 

"Don't say that word," he said blankly. I had just scared him with the L word. I shouldn't have said it; it just slipped out. And then, all at once, it hit me like a huge revelation. I loved him. I loved Trevor. He was a fucking mess; a disaster of a man. He had issues that I would never understand, and a tangled mess of a past. But I loved him all the same. "I love you," I blurted out. I knew I was opening up a can of worms, but I couldn't stop the words from falling out of my mouth. 

"Stop it," he said calmly. I had expected him to freak out. He laid still, not moving away from me. 

"I do." 

"Fucking stop it, okay? Because if you keep talking about it, I'm gonna take off and I don't want to leave. I want to stay here with you." 

"Because you love me?" I tried to hold back a small smile. I knew it to be true. I had known it for a while. I just chose not to think about it. 

"Because I love you," he repeated my words back to me as confirmation. His voice quivered and he broke down into tears again. "Don't leave me." 

I moved him aside gently, and stood up in front of him. I held out my hands to him, and he looked at me with a weak expression, allowing me to help him up. "Let's go to bed," I told him calmly. I wrapped one of his arms around my shoulders and let him support himself against me as I helped him into the bedroom. He had sobered up a bit, but his steps were still clumsy and unbalanced. I helped him into bed and under the sheets and he looked at me like a small child. I climbed under the covers next to him and buried my face in his neck. 

"Go to sleep," I told him. He was already out.


End file.
